Hey, Julie
by Inst-o-Badger
Summary: In the house that is an emotionally wrecked Bloo’s new home, there are more than broken floorboards and dust. There is suffrage, dark secrets and the tangible form of all of the above that seethes in the walls of the house itself. Julie is the key.
1. One: The Reflecting Pool

**Disclaimer**: Though it may start out mild enough, if you're looking for a feel-good, cutesy tale of the warm-n-fuzzy relationship between a friend and their kid, go elsewhere. _Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends_ (c) to Craig McCracken. Enjoy the show.

Hey, Julie.  
-B

I  
one.  
the reflecting pool.

It was the busy season, summertime. They were always busy in summertime. After the summer heat had driven children inside their homes they became apathetic and they became bored. It was a natural thing for children to do, really. And children didn't want to waste their time thinking in their time off so…Foster's was busy. He could even hear them downstairs, running around the grounds and occasionally breaking something. When they did no one paid any mind. The innocence of youth gave them some kind of impotence. They may have gotten a finger wag when Madame Foster still ran the place, but Frankie was much more laid back. The old coot passed away peacefully in her sleep a few years ago. That was the last time he'd seen Mac. He wasn't a boy anymore. He didn't come around anymore. Not even for the busy season.

He lay quietly in bed, in his own room, alone in the afternoon sun that poured onto the sheets.

He heard a knock at the door.

"…Bloo?"

He didn't move.

"Bloo?"

Bloo rolled his eyes and his body onto his side, yanking the sheets over his head. He didn't like the new groundskeeper (Well, she'd been there for almost a year or two, so she wasn't actually THAT new). Dawn got the job done, but she was like a slab of veal: pink, young, tender and bleeding. He didn't like that.

"Bloo," she pleaded, a plastic bucket beating against the door, "please open up, I need to clean the rooms!"

He grunted and threw a paddleball broken from the paddle at the door. The sharp and unexpected noise made Dawn jump. Her tremulous heart made Bloo dislike her even more. It was a sign of weakness.

Dawn sighed and put her free hand on her hip.

"There's still some leftovers in the microwave from breakfast, you know," she said, "of course it's cold but there's some cereal...just go down and get some breakfast to I can do my job, okay? "

He poked his head out of the sheets. Food sounded good, a decent compromise. He'd get up for that. So he did. With a whisper of sheets and the creaking of the door, he was out of the room. Dawn grinned with a mouth full of metal. Her appearance made him nauseous, her coke-bottle glasses and the physique of a two by four. Bloo hated her. He tried to look away.

"There you go…" she said cheerily, her cleaning things in toe. He grunted in response and continued down the halls.

"Cheers!"

"Ugh…"

He'd only gotten lost once in the past nine years, and it was from when he got drunk at a Christmas party. In all actuality he wasn't supposed to be drinking but he found a few bottles of bourbon in the basement and it was all downhill from there. He'd never forget that Christmas because it was when Mac stopped coming. But that was all passed and beside the point. Good 'ol Bloo knew his was around Fosters. He knew everyone in it, too. He'd seen friends come and go but he still knew them all after all the years. In fact, the only original friend that was still around was Eduardo. Coco? Adopted some years ago. Wilt? One day he went out into the city and never came back, no one really knew though there were rumors. Everyone else? Miscellaneous, but mostly adopted.

He heard a snicker and looked to the side. A couple of the younger, newer, more desired friends talked in hushed voices as he walked past.

"That's the oldest one here," said one with a German tilt, feline with splendid magenta eyes and a Cheshire grin, "him and that big purple behemoth. Poor sap thought his kid would never give him up, that he'd keep coming back…a load of bull, that."

The other, so exotically colored, lank and flamingly whimsical that it was hard to tell what she was, dipped her elegant head to the Cheshire's hungry ear.

"Yes, yes," she said softly, "and look at his color so dull, eyes so pallid and old! His youthful luster is gone, and his spirit broken. Much like the Herriman friend who locked himself up in the tower after Madame Foster died. No one will want him now. Maybe before, but definitely not now…he's lost his life, his child and the spirit that makes us sought." She put a hand over her mouth to hide her smile. "But then again, all the less competition!"

They giggled at his misfortune like giddy schoolgirls.

With bags under his eyes and a stone face, old Bloo continued on. This scene had been played out dozens of times by dozens of friends since Mac had left. He had built up an immunity to their types and their whispered words.

'_Just let it go_…'

Bloo finally got to the kitchen and with a sigh got a bowel of cereal and some toast. It was black and cold and cracked in protest under his teeth. It tasted awful. His features wrinkled as he spat it into the trash can, following it up with the remainder of the scorched thing. Suddenly he saw little ripples fanning out from the center of the cereal bowel, pulsing, making the little bits wiggle.

"_Azul! __Azul!_"

The tread of heavy, frantic footsteps stopped right behind him, seemingly slamming into the back of his skull before great arms swept him up and squeezed him.

"_Azul! Pienso que éste es el! Pienso que éste es el! Después de todo este vez!_"

"Whoa…Ed…I need to breathe!" Bloo wheezed in his friend's grip, "And speak English! The only thing I know how to say in Spanish is 'where's the can'!"

"Oh…sorry…"

Eduardo dropped him, still smiling and squirming with glee.

"So, what's the excitement for, big guy?" he asked as he leaned up against the wall.

"Finalmente estoy consiguiendo—Oh, sorry again, mi amigo." He inhaled and exhaled deeply. "I'm finally…I'm finally…"

Bloo was getting annoyed.

"Spit it out, Ed!"

He grinned like the Cheshire in the hall, leaned closer to build tension, giggled, and said:

"…adopted!"

Bloo's heart dropped to where his feet would've been if Mac had given him feet, along with his bowel. It shattered on the tile and the milk splattered when glass hit ceramic.

There was a brief stillness between them. Eduardo's grin left him, and he uttered a quiet:

"You dropped your bowel."

"…yeah."

Bloo picked up the shards of glass and dumped them in the trash. More awkward silence followed.

"So," breathed Bloo, "what's his name?"

Eduardo smiled a little, in it a hint of pride.

"No, no….her. And her name is Isobel! She real nice…much braver than me. She about six, seven in October. "

"That's cool. So, um, when're you leaving?"

"As soon as they finish the paperwork. I want to say goodbye to some people though…"

Bloo was quiet.

"Bloo?"

Still quiet.

"Bloo?"

His eyes grew swollen with tears, and he looked up at his old friend.

"I…I have to go…"

"Bloo…"

"I said I have to GO!"

He turned around and tore off into the bowels of the house.

"BLOO, WAIT!"

He crashed through the back door and ran past the younger and "more sought" as the frolicked in their emotional virginity. He kept running, jumping over garden fences and brush, roses and weeds until Eduardo's voice was far off and distant, until it could no longer be heard at all.

Gasping for breath, he fell into the cool grass. His hungry lungs choked down air making him cough. After his breathing slowed, the tears came. Subtle at first, then in hot, steaming bursts accompanied by wails of anguish. The emotional pain made his body ache so that it was almost tangible. What people called imaginary should never have to feel so real.

First was Mac, then Wilt, then Coco, then Madame Foster and even Mr. Herriman, everyone else and now his last friend was gone. He was alone, more alone than ever. He was abandoned. Now was the final straw. He was too real, a living, breathing contradiction. He no longer served a purpose.

Bloo cradled his pounding head in his hands.

He suddenly wondered where he was and looked up. At his feet was a wide, rectangular pool framed by neat white stones, in it an abundance of colorful flowers and Koei fish, their mouths opening and closing in a hazy way as it to relearn the function that was nature's birthright.

'This, Master Bloo, is the reflecting pool,' Mr. Herriman had said one day, 'We had it even back when the Madame was a small child, before she even founded Fosters. She would so love to look at the fish. Why, these creatures grow so old, I wouldn't be surprised if they were the very same! But, yes, a reflecting pool, used to, as the name implies, reflect upon oneself…'

He suddenly felt he was not alone in this Eden.

Sure enough, there was a little girl, none older than Mac was when Bloo first came to Fosters, still 'sought', standing at the other end of the pool. She was a small girl in tattered pants and a burgundy jacket with a large hole in one elbow. Her wide eyes bore holes in him and a tuff of reddish hair stuck out from beneath her hood. She looked almost frightened. She'd thought she was alone too…

"Hello?" said Bloo curiously, standing up. She stepped back and drew her hood so it hid her face. "Whoa, whoa! It's okay, kid, I won't hurt ya…"

"Who are you!" she cried from across the water.

"What!"

"WHO ARE YOU!"

He cupped his hands over his mouth to project his voice.

"MY NAME'S BLOOREGARD Q. KAZOO! I DIDN'T CHOOSE THE NAME, SO IT'S NOT MY FAULT! MOST CALL ME…"

She was suddenly standing besides him.

"…Bloo," he finished.

She laughed a little.

"Man, you look like the girl version of Kenny," he said.

She smiled warmly beneath the hood and he felt a stinging pang of annoyance. If another person smiled at him today, he'd beat them bloody.

"You're funny," she said with a childish simplicity. "Wanna sit?"

"Er, okay."

They sat.

"Why're you here?" she asked, cocking her head.

He felt a lump in his throat.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he choked out, "But…my boy left me here, he said he'd come back. He did for a few years…then he left. One by one, everyone's left." He looked solemnly to the sky, an old soul. "I'm the oldest friend here…"

"That's weird," said the little girl.

"Why'd you say that?" he asked. "I'm old, I've lost my innocence or luster or whatever the hell they call it! No one wants me."

There was a pause.

"Innocence isn't everything," she said. "Things that're pure…well, they're not really that great. Dirty things are better, more has happened to them, they have a story." She looked down at her converse that were falling apart as they spoke and tapped her feet together happily. Then, she looked at him and grinned beneath the hood. "Like me! And like you! At least that's what Mama said."

"...'said'?"

She looked to the side.

"She's still around, she just don't say much no more."

"So…you're looking for an imaginary friend?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Well, yea," she said, tapping her feet together again like she wanted to return to Kansas. "I've tried, thought. The first one…" she went rigid, like her spine went to lead. Her gaze went far away into space as if beckoned by a dark and unseen force. The air became colder just then. It froze up their nerves into tight, cold knots in their souls.

"Uh," he said uneasily, hoping for the moment to pass, "are you okay?"

She gulped then shook her head to shake off the memory.

"It…It didn't turn out so well."

Bloo became a little uncomfortable about that last part.

"…and the second…" she continued, the black ice in her conscious melting away, "well, he don't do much. I'm not very good at makin' up things, I guess. I like things that other people made up."

"You don't say…" he said, still trying to figure out what she meant by 'it didn't turn out so well' and why it made them so uneasy.

"Yeah! I 'specially music, like old bands. We can't afford CD's so I got a record player and lots of vinyl."

He smiled back at her despite her vagueness. A real smile, not the fake one he'd worn for so long.

They looked out onto the pool for a little while in blissful tranquility. An unspoken truce had been made. With a shaking hand, she pulled back her hood. It slid off smoothly and fell around her shoulders. She had one dark ring around her left eye and one of her front teeth was missing, her face was round, cheeks peppered with freckles, and her hair short and messy. She brushed one of her bangs from her eyes.

"My name's Julian, but I didn't pick the name, so it's not my fault, most call me Julie."

----------------

B SPEAKS: Kudos for reading, much appreciated and before anyone says anything, no relation to 'Hey Arnold'. Anyone heard of Fountains of Wayne? There you go. This isn't a songfic, however, and has no relation the song whatsoever besides the name Julie. Updated once a week, any given day, probably Friday or Saturday. If you like the off-color and ass-backward, look out for my Invader Zim stuff…and just about everything else.

My Beta Reader is Brok3n Sm1le, the strange and elusive creature formerly known as The Kayla. The Kayla thrives on a diet of veggie burgers, soy pudding and can be easily enticed using shoelaces, colorful pins or pictures of Sonny Moore. The Kayla seeks refuge in cool, dark places with her dog-beast in the hostile wilds of Californian Suburbia. Check her stuff out at:

http/ www. fanfiction .net/u/717656/ 


	2. Two: Floor Six

The back door clattered shut.

"Did you hear?" she said between short breaths, leaning up against the screen. She'd run all the way from Herriman's old office, and having four legs that always fumbled over eachother didn't help.

Her companion shook his head without looking up from his book, his own legs crossed neatly and sitting on the veranda wall.

"Really? News travels so fast around here."

He waited a moment, then put the novel down at his side.

"Well," he said, "it really all depends on what I was supposed to have heard."

That was true. He'd heard a lot from sitting on the back porch every day since he'd come to Foster's. 'Did you hear' held little meaning to him.

"About the little blue fellow, of course!" she gasped with disbelief.

"What, you mean Bloo?" --there was excitement in his voice now--"What happened to him? Did he finally die? That's a nice room he's got and I've been--"

She smacked him upside the head.

"HEY!"

"NO, you _TWAT_!" she spat, "He's been adopted!"

He blinked, rubbing the sore lump on his head.

"…oh. Well, either way, I still get his room."

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II  
two  
floor six

There was electricity in the air that morning. A warm lump of thrill was burning a hole in Bloo's gut as packed up his few belongings. He basketball shot things into his bag like Wilt used to do, spinning around in a giddy high. He slammed the lid shut.

It closed with a solid 'click'.

He didn't have any friends around here anymore, just the gods of gossip and glamour that maintained a steady flow into the house. There was no one to say goodbye to, except Mr. Herriman if he could muster the courage, and Julie was downstairs. The stage was set.

His bag flying behind him, he dashed out of his old room, slamming the door in his wake, one last time. It felt good. So he stopped and he did it again. He walked away from the wretched place with a manly strut. Suddenly, when Bloo was just about to round the corner, he ran into Dawn's knobby knees with an 'oof'. The soapy water sloshed out of her bucket and just over his head. She took no notice.

"Oh, 'ello, Bloo!" she chirped.

Bloo suddenly realized he would never see her again.

"You know Dawn," he said, "I know I've never been very tolerant of you these past couple years, that sometimes I made you feel worthless, and I just wanted to tell you what I really think of you."

She snorted back tears and a string of spit clung to her exposed teeth.

"Oh, Bloo! That's so sweet!"

He cringed.

"Yeeeeeah…Dawn?"

Her eyes shined.

Bloo exhaled deeply.

He opened his mouth --tension swelled—he was going to speak. She squirmed.

Bloo said with most sincerity and thought:

"….I hate you. Really. Bye now."

If this was a movie and there was background music, the record skipped.

"B-BUH?" she stammered.

Bloo waved a dismissing hand.

"No-no…bye now!"

"But—"

"Bye-bye!"

In one direction, Bloo went skipping merrily to his new life. In the other went a sobbing Dawn. Of course he was too wrapped up in this personal appraisal to notice. Some things never change.

He saw the pair who'd whispered about him in the hall yesterday and a sly grin crossed over his features.

That morning he went to half of the friends at Fosters, reenacting the scene with Dawn.

First floor: "I hate you."

Second Floor: "You suck."

Third floor: "You smell bad."

Fourth floor: "You're fat."

Fifth floor: "Haircut maybe?"

'You did it, old boy!' his spirits chimed, 'Give 'em hell!'

He did it to such excess that by the time he stopped, Bloo realized he was in the exact opposite side of the house in which he wanted to be. Not to mention he was in the very top floor of the house.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Shit!" he swore, smacking himself in the forehead. His curse echoed through the halls.

He realized just then how empty this place really was.

Feeling that he was the last living soul on this earth, he began to walk again. No one had been on the sixth floor since Madame Foster died, not even to clean. The floorboards groaned under his feet and the wallpaper was peeling off, exposing the wood beneath. He left footprints in the thick layer of particles that coated the floor.

Floor six was once as alive and vibrant as the rest of the house, not long ago in the grand scope of world events, a blink. But for Bloo it seemed like a lifetime. But nonetheless it was surreal how it seemed to have fallen apart.

He came to a halt in front of a large black door, the paint chipping away with weather and time, it's bold face framed by an elegant but faded violet trim. The air became very still just then. A cold streak of uneasiness slithered down his back. The house's foundation moaned in an orgasmic way, as if it was having bad dreams.

A dry chill swept through the corridors as he stood alone.

It was the door to the high tower.

But...what did he have to loose?

Bloo pushed the door open gently. The hinges squealed in protest as its maw swung open, the dim light from the halls creating a slim shaft of light. Bloo slipped in quietly.

"Um…Mr…Mr. Herriman?" he called meekly.

He heard mumbling from the deep.

He stepped farther into the abyss, the house shifting, antiques covered in cobwebs silhouetted against the pale wallpaper, as cold and still as the Madame in her grave. Small specks of dust danced like forgotten demons in the only source of light in the room: a great bay window covered with sheer curtains eaten away at the bottoms by moths. The air of this room was something ancient, something sacred, fragile, like the ivory keys of a piano or faded silk. But in being so old and delicate the place was frightfully eerie.

This place was haunted ground, thick with the stench of death and superstition.

It was a small wonder no one came up here anymore.

In the milky light from the big bay window sat a hunched old creature in an oak chair, facing away from the morning sun.

"Mr. Herriman?" Bloo said again, advancing.

It was indeed Mr. Herriman.

He was not the grand old creature he had once been, however. His mustache was very long and wispy, overgrown, his fur shabby, as were the clothes that were slowly decaying on his withered body. His gnarled hands gripped the arms of the chair like it was salvation as he sat on his throne. When Madame Foster died, he, in spirit, died with her. In the church on the far side of town lay in the unforgiving soil one body, one grave but two souls. No longer the beacon of law he had been when his girl was alive, he retired to the tower room to collect spider webs.

"Hippity….hippity hoppity…hoppity…hippity," me mumbled. His dead eyes stared into empty space.

"Mr.Herriman?" Bloo said once more, reaching to touch his hand. Mr. Herriman snatched it by the wrist, his vice-like hand wound around it with unearthly strength.

"M-MR. HERRIMAN!" Bloo cried trying to wrench it away.

There was a sound similar to breaking wood.

The hand shattered, bloodless.

The broken pieces fell to the floor in soft thuds as Bloo shrieked.

"_AHHHHHHH!_ _SON OF A BITCH_!" cried Bloo, scrambling away from the fragments of the hand.

Mr. Herriman looked at him. It stopped his heart mid-beat.

"This is what happens," he sputtered, thick spittle oozing from his dry mouth. "This is what happens, finally…"

He got up out of the chair and staggered towards Bloo, crumbling away before his very eyes.

"…don't loose it, what you have. You think it's gone but…I am what happens when it is gone!"

He extended his withered arm, rusted joints moving in spasams, so close to Bloo's rattling form that he could almost feel his fingertips touch his flesh.

"You and I are different…you have it….I don't…whatever happens, and things will happen…don't loose it…"

Mr. Herriman began to fall on top of Bloo but before he did, his body dispersed into a cloud of shimmering light. Bloo slammed his back against the door in fear, coughing, eyes burning, as it faded…faded…into dust.

'_Don't loose it_.'

Bloo bolted out of the room screaming, leaving floor six and the stuff of nightmares behind him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Oh, hey Bloo! What took you so long?"

"God, Julie, don't even ask."

"Ewwww… you're all _dusty_…"

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B SPEAKS: Sorry for the short chapter, folks. I tried to stretch it but I felt the chapter rightfully ends here. Now, a heads up: I'm going to be in Colorado the week after next so chapter four will most likely be delayed. There is a chance I can borrow a laptop but it ain't looking good. To double it, the week after I'm going back to school…which sucks ass. In lighter news, I'm really looking forward to doing chapter four as it's mostly about Wilt. Of course he's not there in person, but you get the picture. There will be a much later chapter featuring only Ed and Coco as well, just to even things out.

Review or I'll tell Sam to send the Emo Mafia to KILL YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY.


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